An eight-fight unbeaten run came to an end on
Saturday evening as "The Fighting Marine", 29-year-old Kasha
Chamblin of Lafayette, Louisiana, hit the deck in the Estrel
Convention Center, Berlin-Neukölln, and with it, her hopes of
snatching the WIBF featherweight belt from the waist of the still
undefeated Ina Menzer of Mönchengladbach.
Chamblin was a worthy challenger – stylish, fit and full of heart –
but she read the exchanges less well than her opponent, missed
widely with her best shots, and did scant mischief with the rest.

An exchange in the first round encapsulated the entire fight: a jab
so anaemic from Chamblin it may even have been a feint, followed by
an uppercut that did no damage, refuted by a right cross to the face
that did; a furious but ineffectual flurry of four shots in reply
from Chamblin interrupted by a clubbing left hook to the cheekbone
that bent her neck; and then a second – a punishment shot, almost –
for good measure, that knocked her sideways and left her blinking
and covering up. "Three direct hits from Menzer," commented ZDF's
Michael Pfeffer. "Clearly, aggression on its own won't be enough for
Kasha Chamblin."

All the same, the first four minutes made no inroads whatever on her
confidence, to judge by her serenity during the break; eyes closed
as her trainer applied the Vaseline, she looked for all the world
like an actress relaxing between takes while the makeup girl
restored her foundation. Even when she sat down at the end of the
third, now evidently disconcerted —"She's nailing you with her
right," he scolded (as though she hadn't noticed) – her right
profile (the skin unmarked, the improbably fragile Roman nose
intact) gave no indication that the "Duel of the Beautiful Women"
ZDF had promised us were anything more consequential than an
exchange of insults.

But all that was about to change. Twenty seconds into the fourth
round, Menzer surprised her with a left, which she followed with a
combination, and Chamblin was forced to clinch for the first time.
"If you look now into the eyes of the attractive Kasha Chamblin…"
began Herr Pfeffer a minute later (if only we could, Michael, if
only we could!) "… you'll notice that there's a swelling beneath one
of them… and it's about to get worse." That wasn't perhaps
the way he'd intended to end the sentence, but Menzer, who, unlike
those of us sitting at home, was actually in a position to look the
attractive Kasha Chamblin in the eyes, had obviously noticed the
swelling too, and been inspired. The result was what Pfeffer called
"einTrommelfeuer" (think: "drum-roll"; then think
"artillery")and by the end of the round, there were bulges
under both eyes, complemented, two minutes later, by a trickle of
blood from the nose. "She's dirty inside," complained Chamblin;
though it was the blows from outside that were doing the real
damage: a pair of crisp left-rights, a right hook at the end of a
fierce exchange; and (after she'd teed her up almost in slow motion
with her left as the American pressed forward) a fourth right that
speared into her cheek, provoking an incensed retaliation that
continued after the bell.

Often, when Menzer hit her, she'd shake her head, in the hope of
convincing her she wasn't hurt; at other times, she'd respond
angrily, lunging and flailing and thrashing the air as the Kazakh
skipped away. "It was my footwork that won it," Menzer said
afterwards. But it had much, also, to do with her superior weight of
punch. On the fleeting occasions when they did stand toe-to-toe,
Chamblin pummelled where Menzer punched.

There are flies in this world convinced that they're wasps. You swat
and miss, and they fly up hysterically into your face. And whilst
Chamblin has stopped opponents, and might even have managed a
result here if she'd found the mark with one of her haymakers, there
was much in her worrying of Menzer that suggested a fly harassing a
wasp.

And of course, she got stung. She was behind – seven rounds behind,
if you believed the commentator – going into the eighth, but showing
no signs of wilting, when Menzer hit her – really hit her – and this
time there was no denying she was hurt.

She threw a jab, stepping forward as she did so, and walked straight
into a combination. The two lefts landed simultaneously, with the
champion's more powerful left – half jab, half hook – catching her
full in the face with a thud and stopping her dead in her tracks,
only for the right – even louder, completing a kind-of inverted
echo, like the double-thump of the kick drum (only accompanied by
tennisy, girlish grunts) – to slam into the side of her face,
bending her sideways into a half-past-nine posture (give or take a
few minutes), and launching her into a strange backward stagger that
lasted several seconds, for most of which time she wore the confused
(but stubborn) expression of a drunk who's forgotten what he was
about to say (but who's darned if he'll let anyone else speak).
According to the commentator, the punch hit her on the temple and
interrupted the supply of blood to the brain. I thought it was her
cheekbone, and the jarring of the head. But whatever. She tottered
backwards for a few metres before going over on her right ankle and
falling sideways onto the apron.

She lay there sprawled on her face. "And that is a knock
out!" said the commentator, with a tone of finality. But no. The
left leg, that had been pulled up, began to straighten, and – slowly
at first, like a child turning in her sleep – she began to roll
over, and then sat up. By the count of six she was back on her feet
and seemed OK. She took a few paces backwards as Van de Wiele came
towards her, waving his arms like a charismatic as he performed the
count – but so would anyone. He asked her if she was alright, and
she said yes, and held up her gloves, and looked set to go; but he
took her by the wrists and looked into her eyes; and stopped it. A
decision she couldn't understand.

"It's admirable the way she got up like that," commented Pfeffer.
"An unbelievable exhibition of soldierly virtue; but the blow was
just too hard: a right that hit the target with a force you
otherwise – in women's sport, … women's boxing – almost never see."

Whether or not that's true, Menzer does hit hard; the punch that did
the damage here was by no means the hardest she is capable of
delivering; and if she'd been alert enough to realize at once how
badly hurt her opponent was, and hit her again while her hands were
down and she was staring with unseeing eyes (and in the wrong
direction), there's no way on earth she'd have got up. For something
like three seconds there, Chamblin was walking the way Mel Gibson
drives. Fortunately she had enough sense left to keep her mouth shut
when gravity (in this case, rather than LA's finest) brought her
meandering to an end.

And as well for her that it did; because by that time Menzer was
closing in – and fast!